The Last Person to Get Rained On
by Thaddeus MacChuzzlewit
Summary: Clint Barton and Tony Stark were not exactly blessed in the height department. Bruce Banner was just plain short. What really mattered was that the Hulk was huge, Iron Man was well over six foot, and Hawkeye was... still short. But sometimes that was a good thing.
1. 1: The Retaining Wall Incident

_In the grand scale of things, Jeremy Renner is not a short man. But if you watch him in the TV series 'The Unusuals', you will certainly get that impression. So here is an ode to short!Hawkeye._

 _This story is not compliant with any one Marvel medium in particular._

* * *

 **The Last Person to Get Rained On**

 **Or**

 **Five Times Clint's Lack of Height Was a Good Thing, and One Time it Really Wasn't**

"Tony?"

"Present," the man in question said, raising his hand without looking up from the computer pad on the kitchen bar.

"Tony." A delicate hand with peach coloured nails spread across the screen, causing Tony Stark to pull back in protest. He found the pert little face of his Personal Aide turned CEO, Pepper Potts, leaning into his view. "Are you listening to me now? I'm actually trying to get somewhere on time today, and I could use at least your momentary attention."

Spinning around on his stool, Tony flashed her a wide grin. "Of course I'm listening. You just said um... Jarvis, help me out here."

Pepper rolled her eyes as the voice of Tony's personalised AI unit drifted through the kitchen.

"Ms. Potts was asking if you knew the whereabouts of the folder she left on the kitchen counter this morning."

"Yeah that. That's totally what I heard you say." He jumped to his feet, stumbling a little as he realised his coffee meter was seriously outweighing his real-food meter. Although he had made it out of the lab and all the way up to the kitchen, Tony had forgotten about the goal of actually eating something nutritious when he arrived.

The rich, outrageously smart, businessman/inventor was fit, handsome and relatively well-groomed, making him the frequent centre of the public's attention. But if it weren't for Pepper he would have died of malnutrition and a caffeine overdose years ago.

Scrubbing a hand through his scruffy brown hair, Tony looked around. "Uh. Maybe Captain Patriotic moved it. Where did you put the file down?"

"In the empty spot," Pepper sighed. "The only part of the counter that's not always covered in dishes."

The kitchen _was_ rather messy, but upon closer inspection Tony could see what Pepper was talking about. A small two foot-square spot on the kitchen counter was clear of all dishes and paraphernalia.

In retrospect, Tony realised it was always clear. If someone left food or dishes in that particular area, they always found the items had disappeared within a few hours time.

"Okay. That's weird. Jarvis, cue up the security footage of the kitchen for this morning on my Pad. Also, make a note that we need some kind of dishwasher-loading robot. Nobody can figure that unit out."

"Yes sir. Noted."

Pepper leaned forward to watch as a shot of Steve Rogers and Thor eating breakfast cereal filled the screen. Tony kept the video in fast forward as the two blond and blue-eyed heroes ate their way through three cereal boxes and then began to stack their bowls and make a pathetic attempt at tidying up. They were just replacing the milk in the fridge when Clint Barton wandered onto the screen, yawning and still clad in a pair of ratty sweatpants. Thor slapped the archer on the shoulder and Steve gave him a silent greeting as he returned the cereal to the cupboard.

They watched Clint pour himself some coffee and then wander over to Pepper's abandoned file on the counter. He placed one hand on the file, fiddling with the edges absently. A couple minutes later Steve and Thor left.

"What's he doing?" Tony said.

The archer was very obviously scanning the empty room before he snatched up the file and a couple dishes and surveyed the crowded kitchen counter. With decisive movements he yanked open the unused dishwasher and dropped them inside.

"So that's where everything's going."

With the counter spot clear, Clint placed two hands lightly on the surface, and then in a blink-and-miss-it movement, he jumped straight up onto the counter. Rolling forward onto the balls of his feet, the archer pried open the top cupboard and pulled out one of the boxes of brightly colour cereal that Captain Rogers had replaced minutes earlier.

Tony let out a snort and Pepper just gaped at the tiny image of the Barton leaning there, nonchalantly eating handfuls of Fruit Loops.

"He's standing on my Italian marble countertops!"

"Pepper..." Tony waved a hand at the cupboards behind them. "It's cause he's too short to reach the top shelf."

All traces of anger vanished from her face. "Awww. It didn't occur to me that he might want a stool. Poor thing. I never use that top shelf, and Captain Rogers can reach it just fine. Why didn't you tell me it was out of his reach?"

"Don't look at me. Feathers likes to pretend he's a full inch taller than me. But who's he kidding? There's no way he's taller. Anyways, who needs cereal? If it's not bacon, what's the point of breakfast?"

* * *

But Tony did find a stool for Clint. It was perfect. He set it up after the others had gone to bed and then kicked his feet up in the adjoining living room so he could witness Barton's reaction in the morning.

Just in case, he also had Jarvis focus the security cameras right on the Barbie Playmate Toilet-training Companion Step-up Stool, tucked up against the counter right under the cereal.

As a finishing touch he plastered a label on the top of the stool.

 **Step right up, step right up, Hawkeye.**

Tony was rather proud of the circus reference.

The main kitchen in the Avenger's tower was up on one of the highest floors, opening onto a porch that seconded as a landing pad for Iron Man and any other flying visitors. At 6:35 the sun was breaking through the floor to ceiling windows with vigour, but Tony was awoken by something different.

"Clint, don't you think you should... Wait! You aren't going to actually- Clint!"

The sound of someone else swearing hit Tony's ears. He tried to open his eyes, but didn't succeed until the rattle of the glass porch door startled him to awareness.

Tony fell off the couch in a tangle of cushions and misplaced legs.

Blinking at the sun, he realised Steve Rogers was standing in front of him, hands on his hips. The super-soldier had his Unimpressed Look on. It was the sort of look that set most red-blooded Americans crying like a scolded child. Unfortunately, Tony had become inured to that kind of look about the same time he was kicked out of his seventh elementary school.

"Uhhh Cap?"

"You were deliberately goading Barton." He didn't even bother to phrase it like a question.

Tony scrambled to right himself, so he was at least looking at Steve from the couch, and not the floor. "He was climbing onto the counter to get at the cereal, Cap! He can't even reach the shelf on his own."

Steve Rogers rolled his eyes. He did that with a frequency that really ought to have been mentioned in the history books.

"Tony, you can't press his buttons like that. Barton is a pretty solitary guy, and we're trying to make him feel more comfortable with the team, not less."

"It was a joke!" Tony protested. "We were bonding over a joke."

"He just threw the step-stool off the edge of the balcony."

"Oh."

Squinting at the sunlight streaming in from the open balcony, Tony frowned. "Um. That's a really long ways down. It didn't land on anyone, did it?" Pepper had him covered with liability insurance, right? Would that sort of thing cover Accidental Squashed Pedestrian?

"No." Steve shook his head, actually looking quite impressed. "We're almost ninety floors up, and he got it right in that garbage bin that sits beside the bus stop on Broadway. I mean, the wind alone at this height…"

Tony twisted around to peer behind the couch. Clint Barton was no longer anywhere in sight. "So. Did he look angry? Homicidal at all? Like he was planning on using any of his mad ninja-assassin skills?"

The guy was a freaking shadow when he wanted to be. He could walk on a bed of tambourines and probably make no noise at all.

"Well, you're still alive, aren't you?" Steve said with a shrug.

"True."

Apparently this wasn't enough of an answer for him, because Steve Rogers gave him a closer look. He was becoming much too good at catching Tony's distracted/scheming face. The taller man's eyebrows drew together. "Tony, this isn't going to become 'a thing' is it?"

The billionaire looked affronted. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Oh yeah. It was totally a thing.

* * *

Clint Barton was 'vertically challenged', and now everybody knew. It was pretty stupid, because Tony was just as short, and Bruce and Natasha fell just under that. The real issue was that while nobody expected the Black Widow to compete in height with Thor or Captain America, the rest of their team all had pretty impressive physiques on the battle field, and by comparison, Hawkeye spent most of the time looking compact, deadly, sexy as hell, and... tiny.

It wasn't anything they had outright talked about. By comparison to most teams, they had a whole herd of elephants just sitting there in the metaphorical room. One more unspoken subject wasn't going to cause a stir.

Tony was the one that really made it an issue. Because Tony was the one that started practically everything that was annoying and not helpful and generally made life more difficult.

Not long after the death of the Barbie Playmate Toilet-training Companion Step-up Stool, they found themselves all sitting around the dining room table, still staring rather dopey eyed at the remains of a surprisingly good home-made soufflé. Except Clint had gotten tired of sitting at least halfway through the meal and was now lounging on the opposite side of the table from his plate, standing beside Thor's chair and picking stray blonde hairs off the back of the god's cape. It wasn't until the archer moved directly behind the chair that something funny came to light.

Clint standing was exactly the same height as Thor sitting.

"Ha!" Tony let out a bark of laughter as the archer peered around the chair at him suspiciously. "You can't even see over the chair, can you, Legolas? You must have fudged the numbers for your SHIELD file just to meet the minimum height requirement."

"Shut up, Stark," Clint said evenly.

"I mean, I know you do most of your sniping from afar, so intimidating your enemies isn't usually an issue. But isn't it a hazard on the field? Can't get over that piece of fallen rubble, can't reach the bottom rung of the fire escape…"

Clint flipped him off.

"No, really. Do you have problems seeing the screen at the movie theatre? Should we get you a booster seat for the Quinjet-"

Steve didn't even see Clint move, but suddenly there was a fork embedded in the arm of Tony's chair, pinning his sleeve to the furniture.

"What the-!" Tony yelped. He pulled hard, but couldn't get his sleeve free. The fork was buried right up to the end of the tines. "Somebody get me loose!"

Steve had to fight hard not to sigh. "Natasha, will you do the honours?"

Glancing up at the super-soldier, the former assassin shrugged. She slipped a knife from somewhere on her person and flicked it in Stark's direction. With one slice, his sleeve dropped from his shoulder to pool around his wrist.

Tony yanked his hand close to his chest, and examined his appendage closely. "You took my arm hair right off, Barton! You were an eighth of an inch from taking the skin with it! Cap?" he appealed to the team leader.

"Clint. Please don't throw kitchen utensils at the table."

The archer said nothing, just continued to glare at Tony.

"You don't have to be so sensitive about it. We're not going to kick you off the team just because you're short."

"I'm not 'sensitive', Stark," Clint growled. "Did it ever occur to you that it might actually be useful not to tower over everyone like Thor? I can take a job in parts of Asia and not stand out in a crowd. I can fit in tight spaces others can't. People lower their guard around me because they don't think I'm dangerous. And I'm a smaller target when I'm up on the roof with no cover, guarding _your_ freaking ass."

Tony let out a huff that was as close as anyone ever got to an apology. "Yeah. I'm sure your lack of height is super useful."

Clint's eyes narrowed.

"So!" Bruce said loudly. "I guess it's time for dessert!"

Steve jumped to his feet. "Great idea. Tony, come help me fetch the ice cream."

"I-"

"Tony."

The billionaire followed Steve out of the room, grumbling, and that was the end of the conversation.

But not the end of the issue.

The very next day Tony hacked his way into SHIELD's unlisted phone log, found Barton's personal cell number, and helpfully started texting him short people jokes.

* * *

It turned out that Barton was right, though.

Sometimes his height was a very good thing.

 **1: The Retaining Wall Incident**

 **.**

"How are we supposed to defeat an invisible alien entity if we can't even see it?" Captain Rogers stared around the evacuated residential area, hands on his hips. The dedicated soldier was coming close to showing his frustration with what had been a several-hour long game of hide and seek with an invisible opponent.

"That's what invisible means. What did you expect?" Iron Man muttered while he busied himself with something on Jarvis' helmet display.

The Black Widow highly suspected he was playing solitaire.

"Methinks it is unwise to stand in such open grounds," Thor said. "Would not it be better to find cover from our cowardly foe in case he comes by stealth?"

SHIELD agents Barton and Romanoff were in full agreement. The two had unconsciously moved so that they were standing back to back as soon as Rogers had called for a quick regrouping. They were gathered in a parking lot. On one side a retaining wall offered them some shelter, but the Avengers were open to attack on all other sides. So far the alien hadn't attacked, as much as retreated and defended itself, but it had shown bursts of violence against civilians earlier in the day, so Barton and Romanoff were not relaxing.

'Ding'.

Barton frowned, and pulled out his cell phone to see an incoming text.

 **Short people: The last to get rained on, and the first to drown.**

He looked up with a snarl to see Iron Man with his mask back, laughing uproariously.

It was true that with the Hulk standing right behind him and Romanoff, the archer's lack of height was even more exaggerated than normal.

Captain Rogers tried to regain control of the situation. "According to Iron Man, the last energy pulse came from two streets down and was headed North. If we-"

A quiet fizzing noise caused all six of the Avengers to snap their attention in the direction of the retaining wall. They just had time to see a faint blue mass hovering on the grass beyond, before Iron Man, the Hulk, Captain Rogers and Thor collapsed as one.

Barton froze, eyebrows raised. "What were they looking at?" he hissed.

"I don't know. I can't see over the wall."

The archer moved closer to his partner. "I can't either. That must have been the knock-out energy pulse that Bruce was trying to explain to us."

Red hair bouncing, Romanoff nodded. "He said it would take two minutes to recharge. Think you can calculate exactly where the pulse originated from?"

Barton just smiled and nocked an arrow to his bow. "Up and over?"

The alien had no chance. If you can accurately shoot any target, you can also accurately calculate where any target was shot from. It took them less than a full minute to leap the wall, locate and then incapacitate the invisible alien. Romanoff destroyed its cloaking device and Barton made a joke about Romulans that she didn't understand and he thought was hilarious.

Then they removed Iron Man's helmet and played double solitaire for half an hour while they waited for the others wake up, and a clean-up team to arrive.

Steve, Thor, and a de-Hulked Bruce eventually woke up in the recovery position, lying on their sides with a jacket or cape folded under their heads. Tony was flat out on his face, and had to deal with a crick in his neck for the rest of the week.


	2. 2: The Vulnerable Menswear Incident

_I deleted this chapter, rewrote it, and I'm still not happy with it. But it's probably better than another week with no update. Hope you still enjoy it!_

* * *

 **2: The Vulnerable Menswear Incident**

 **.**

"This is kind of fun." Pepper Potts giggled, as she shifted to find a more comfortable spot leaning against the headboard of Clint Barton's bed.

Natasha gave a more conservative smile in return, and took a sip of the fruity cocktail Pepper had fixed for her. "I know. We should make a sport of Clint-watching more often."

The man in question was standing in an awkward position with his arms stretched out to the sides and various pins and threads sticking out of his suit jacket at different angles. A specialized tailor was busy adjusting the darts at the waistline of his pants.

Clint groaned, and tried to look over his shoulder at the two women perched on his bed. The result was a sharp pain in the butt.

"Ouch!"

The SHIELD-provided tailor crouching behind the archer looked up with a scowl. "If you'd stop moving it wouldn't hurt so much."

"Really, моя хищная птица? I've seen you take a bullet with more grace," Natasha drawled.

Clint made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a whine. "I signed up for bullets. I did not sign up to play bait."

"You shouldn't take it personally," his partner responded, with very little attempt at sounding sincere. She leaned a little to the side, to admire a different angle. "They asked Borja and Spaa before you."

"Borja's from Accounting, and Rupert Spaa is the SHIELD Child-care Liason. Both of them are paid to look non-threatening!"

Pepper interrupted him. "I've known some very threatening accountants."

"Not my point, Ma'am."

"Pepper," she insisted.

"Pepper. My point is, I hate undercover work, and I'll complain about it if I want to."

Natasha just shrugged. Complaining about annoyances like paper-cuts and bad weather was one of Clint's favourite past-times. The healthier and happier he was, the more he complained.

"Alright. The adjustments are done." Snipping off an extra thread, the tailor placed two hands on Clint's shoulders and forced him to turn like a music box dancer. "As you can see, the grey makes a more subtle statement than a black suit. It's a softer colour and the lines aren't as sharp and dominant."

Pepper and Natasha both nodded and smiled.

"The dress pants and waist of the jacket are meant to showcase his slim hips and draw the eye down the pant leg, to the shoes. We chose a European style shoe with cap toed wingtips. It emphasises the length instead of the width of the foot. I minimized bulk around the pockets and the seams of the suit, so the result is a very narrow look."

"He's so cute!" Pepper squealed, perhaps having drunk a few too many cocktails already.

Clint flushed a bright red, and stared at the ceiling while the tailor made him do another turn.

"Thankfully Mr. Barton does not possess extremely broad shoulders, so I kept the straight lines in the shoulders of the suit, and tailored the arms as tight as possible to hide his musculature without restricting movement."

Natasha gave the jacket an appreciative stare while the tailor tugged at the sleeves. "You may note that the sleeves are a couple inches longer than necessary. This is a little trick to suggest to the observer that the suit is too big. It creates an unconscious aura of vulnerability in the wearer, while the rest of the suit fits perfectly.

"To finish off the look we have a less traditional skinny tie. It moves the eye away from his shoulders and down his chest to the slender cut of the suit. Mr. Barton is wearing a very subtle brown eyeliner. As you can see...," he pointed out the effect to the women, "His eyes are already showcased very nicely, but the liner makes them appear even larger than usual. Humans naturally associate large eyes with children, the sick, and the helpless."

"What about his hair?" Pepper asked.

The tailor stepped back to observe his creation. "Just a small amount of gel, and a few natural highlights. It's supposed to look styled, but slightly ruffled and unattended. Perhaps someone has already run their hands through it a few times."

Natasha licked her lips.

"I feel like a Ken doll." Clint complained.

There was a knock on the door, and Steve Rogers could be heard on the other side. "Wheels up in ten, Clint. Jarvis is doing a com check."

The archer reached up to switch his hearing aids over to sync with the team's ear pieces.

It was a fairly simple mission, this time. Clint had to attend a fund-raising gala and somehow lure a group of international kidnappers into taking home a lethal field agent, instead of their usual victims of choice, intelligence analysts, PAs or computer technicians. So far these kidnappers had been targeting the government's smallest, most defenseless looking employees who still had access to classified information.

Clint wasn't particularly enamoured with the mission, or really any type of situations that involved crowds, ground level, and interacting with other human beings, but so far this group had only kidnapped men, so Natasha wasn't option, and when it came to other field agents that Fury trusted to go into unknown situations without backup, Clint was the only one who came close to looking like potential kidnapping fodder.

"Ready to go?" Natasha smirked, sliding off the bed and strutting over to her partner. She reached out to brush a speck of dust off his shoulder.

"There are going to be hundreds of people there."

"Yes there are," she nodded.

"I hate people."

"Deal with it."

Clint turned plaintive eyes to the other woman in the room.

Pepper looked suitably affected, but didn't respond the way he wanted her to.

"You do look very kidnapable." She gestured earnestly with one hand, spilling some of her drink on his bedsheets. "I would definitely stuff you in my purse and bring you home if I could."

Clint sighed. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Pepper."

"Pepper," he replied. "I guess I'll just take myself off to be victimised, then."

Natasha had the nerve to wave as he left the room. "Have a good time!"

* * *

Clint timed his entrance perfectly. He swept into the gala during a lull in the music, pausing in the entranceway at the top of the stairs with Kashish from SHIELD's Aviation Division on his arm. He owed her for an incident involving a quinjet and a Moroccan camel, and she stood an inch and a half taller than him in heels.

Almost immediately afterwards, Thor and Steve Rogers loomed up behind him, a wall of solid black tux. Steve was sporting a subtle false nose, and Thor was having great fun with an Earth style 'man-bun'. Jane had also helped him dye his hair brown for the occasion.

Since Clint was actually looking to get himself into trouble this time, his teammates were only there to help with the visuals.

Their entrance didn't exactly cause a Cinderella Moment, but most people at least glanced over, and Clint decided he'd scored his first recognition points for the evening. He noticed a number of young women giving him a second look, and catalogued them as a good place to start schmoozing for the evening.

The music started up again and Kashish reached out to straighten his tie. "You owe me a dance before you go get yourself kidnapped."

"Fine," Clint grumbled good-naturedly. "But only because _you_ asked."

The archer was impressively light on his feet, a fact that had been accidentally discovered at the first and only SHIELD Annual Valentine's Day Dance. The dance was eventually revealed to be the result of a typo on the SHIELD calendar, and since it ended in thousands of dollars of property damage and the temporary marooning of the Hellicarrier on a sandbar off the west coast of Canada, it was officially discontinued. But the damage had already been done, and Clint Barton's reputation had gone from wise-ass-ninja-archer-with-a-terrifying-habit-of-materializing-where-you-didn't-expect-him, to best-possible-option-to-replace-a-date, take-to-a-wedding, make-an-ex-jealous, or just-generally-have-a-good-time-on-the-dance-floor.

Clint offered a hand to his date, and they made their way down to the dance floor.

"Alright, Hawkeye. Make me look good," Kashish demanded with a grin.

Clint started bobbing his head to the music, finding the beat. "It's Head Analyst Lance Dawson tonight, and I believe you already have looking-good covered tonight."

"Why thank you, Mr. Dawson."

"You're quite welcome, my dear."

Kashish snickered.

"Shall we?" Clint deftly wove them into the stream of dancing couples. "Does this mean my slate's clean again?"

"Hmm." The SHIELD Aviation Engineer considered this while Clint spun her in a circle. "One more waltz, and you convince Fury to let me keep the dress. Deal?"

"Deal."

Steve and Thor had each found a dance partner by now, and Clint maneuvered around the floor until he was dancing behind the two Avengers. It set off his height to a better advantage.

They waltzed past one of the giant amps at the front of the room. A small band was performing on a raised platform. Clint didn't think the crooner onstage was particularly good, and even a deaf man could tell the second violin was out of tune.

A few songs later, the band took a break, Kashish set off in search of another dance partner, and Clint began the work of making sure _everyone_ at the gala knew who Lance Dawson was, and what interesting information his job gave him access to.

For two hours the archer made the rounds of the ballroom, slipping in and out of conversations, positioning himself beside the tallest socialites he could find, dropping names and dropping his wine glass when he was jostled. The physical ineptitude was even harder to fake than the how-interesting tell-me-more smile he was maintaining by iron will alone. He had more than a few offers of female company by the time he was satisfied with his work (if he never heard the word 'cute' again, it would be too soon), but he made a better target on his own, so he had to feign obliviousness and retreat to the bar.

Clint was halfway through the press of the crowd when a waiter drifted into his path.

"Would you like a drink, sir?"

"Ah. Yes, thank you." Clint eyed the waiter, who seemed to be standing very close to him. He accepted the glass.

The waiter didn't leave.

Clint gave the man another once over. The guy was over a head taller than him, with a neck that was about as thick around as Clint's thighs. His current stance was probably supposed to be an amateur's attempt at menacing.

Ohhhh.

Clint looked down at his drink. But they seriously expected him to drink this? How much of an idiot was he supposed to be?

The waiter stared at him expectantly.

Quite an idiot, apparently.

With a world weary sigh, he picked up the drink and drained it in one go.

If he was going down, he might as well go down hard.

* * *

"Has anyone seen Hawkeye in a while?" Steve said, looking up from his plate of hors d'oeuvres.

"Mmf," Thor answered around a full mouth.

A scan of the crowded hall didn't reveal any sign of their smaller friend.

Kashish was busy dancing with a particularly charismatic MI6 agent, but when they got her attention she added that she hadn't seen him either.

Steve stood to the side of the swirling mass, hands on his hips. "I guess the mission was a success, then."

Thor nodded. He took another look in the direction of the buffet line.

"Does this mean it is necessary for us to leave the merrymaking?"

Steve shrugged. "I don't see why."

They headed back to the food.

* * *

It was a sad fact that Clint Barton been drugged so many times, with so many different substances, that his body wasn't nearly as well affected as it probably should have been. Consequently, the tampered drink began to wear off way before his captors were ready for him.

Clint woke up with his body tightly pressed on both sides into an awkward sitting position.

His first thought was that he'd fallen out of bed again, and was wedged between the wall and the mattress. But after blinking a few times he realised it was much too dark to be his room, even with the lights out, and the air was still and stale. His hands were cuffed behind him, and he could feel them pressed against hard plastic. By shifting as much as he could, Clint soon realised he was enclosed in a box not more than an inch higher than his head, with only enough room between his back and his feet for him to fit with his legs tucked tight against his chest. Good thing he was so flexible, or he'd probably be experiencing horrible cramps by now.

He was pressed too tight to maneuver his hands down and around in front of him.

Ugh.

Experimentally, he pushed his head against the ceiling, then kicked against the wall in front of him. No give. He tried throwing himself to either side next.

There was a bit of give on his right side, so he continued to rock his weight against that wall until it gave way, and he tumbled out onto the open floor. Then he jumped to his feet, tucking his legs up to smoothly jump through the loop of his arms, ending up standing with his cuffed hands in front.

Then he saw the rest of the room.

"Fantastic… Just fantastic."

Tony was never going to let him live this down. _Natasha_ would never let him live this down.

There were no people in the relatively small room. What did fill the room was sound equipment. All the instruments, microphone stands, piles of xlr cords, and amps that had been used to host the band at the gala dinner.

And the box that Clint had been shoved into?

One of the giant amps.

They'd packed him inside a hollow speaker to sneak him out of the gala.

It had been a tight fit for sure, but even Clint was embarrassed that he'd fit inside one of the speakers.

Shaking his head, Clint slipped a lock pick from his collar, undid his cuffs and continued to poke around the room. He pocketed a second set of handcuffs which were lying around, since they made excellent knuckledusters, and three sets of drum sticks, which were good for both throwing, and annoying Stark at the dinner table. There weren't any actual weapons available, but Hawkeye was already deadlier on his own than your average machine-gun, so he wasn't concerned.

The door, it turned out, was unlocked. Just to be on the safe side (at least that was his justification for it this time), Clint decided to climb up into the drop ceiling instead. The white ceiling tiles were barely sturdy enough to support the weight of a large rodent, so Clint had to hang from the pipes on the inner ceiling instead, making his way forward hand over hand like a sloth.

He needn't have bothered. When he dropped into the next room, the three thick-necked thugs were completely unprepared, cards and coffee cups scattering all over the table, and guns leaning uselessly in a pile in the corner. Clint had two of them laid out unconscious before they even managed to stand, and the other man just got the chance to turn and vainly reach towards his weapon.

Clint flipped over the table and round-house kicked him in the back of the head. "Sorry, man. Too slow."

Ten minutes later, he'd made it up three floors from the sub-basement to the ground floor, picked up one more set of drum sticks (score!), encountered absolutely no-one ready to take on a victim who fought back, fought them anyways, and finally found a telephone near the front door.

"Hey, Stark? It's Hawkeye."

The billionaire on the other end sounded surprised to hear him. "Barton? Are you done already? Do you need back up?"

Clint looked over his shoulder at the man groaning on the floor behind him. He had two broken arms. "Well, I suppose I could use some clean-up. All the hostiles are down, though."

" _All_ of them? How many is that?"

"Twenty-one," Clint said automatically. "Half the wait-staff were involved, and the whole band and sound crew."

"So _that's_ how they were doing it. Somebody sure messed up if they didn't notice the staff were the same at all these events."

"Yeah," Clint said, surprised that they had exchanged this many words without Tony ruining it. "So are you sending some muscle my way?"

There was a pause on the other end.

"Well…"

"Stark?"

"I've got your location now. Looks like you're not far away, and I can try and drum up Romanoff for you, but I think she's gone out."

"And?"

"And Thor and Cap haven't come back yet."

"What? From the gala?" He looked over at the clock on the wall. "All the staff are here. It must be over by now."

"Well, yeah. But they stayed till the end and now they're at an after party."

"An after party? _Steve_ and _Thor_?"

"That's what I said. Can you hear me? Is this a bad connection? Just a minute. I can boost it for you."

Clint sighed. "Never mind. I can wait for SHIELD to show up. Just send the message along to Fury for me."

"Sure thing, Cupid." He could hear some scuffling on the other end of the line. "Uh. They're on their way. Estimated time of arrival is two hours."

"Figures."

"Soooo did the suit work out?" Tony somehow managed to inject an audible leer into the words. "Pepper said, and I quote, you looked 'cute as a button.'"

Clint glanced down and smoothed a hand over the grey fabric. He was actually kind of impressed he hadn't split a single seam. "The suit was functional. But sorry if I don't place too much stock in Ms. Pott's taste in men."

"Wait. Are you dissing yourself, or me?"

"You have to ask?"

The billionaire laughed. "I like you, smart ass."

Clint rolled his eyes. "I'm hanging up now."

"Then how are you going to occupy yourself for two hours? Just going to talk to yourself? We could play word an association game. You start."

Click.

"Are you going to take your turn? Legolas? Barton? Hello?"

Silence.

"Does this mean you're not playing?"


	3. 3: The Innocent Bystander Incident

_I was away on vacation, but I'm back! So we now return to your irregularly unscheduled programming._

* * *

 **3: The Innocent Bystander Incident**

 **.**

Tony had been walking beside Clint, joking about Thor's reactions to the New York City tourist attractions around them, when he noticed the group of men in trenchcoats at the far end of the bayside pier. "Is it just me or are those guys seriously giving off a 'henchmen' vibe?"

He turned around to check with the archer, but Clint had vanished. Tony completed his rotation and realised that Natasha had melted away from her place behind him, at Steve and Thor's side. Bruce was trailing even further back, trying to distance himself from the billionaire's endless attempts to provoke the Hulk.

"Oh darn."

It was never a good sign when the SHIELD duo deserted them.

"Attention citizens of New York!" Suddenly, a voice boomed out from a loudspeaker at the end of the pier. "If you want to stay alive, I suggest you stand still and follow my directions."

Tony moved closer to Steve and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket with one hand while he checked out the men in the trenchcoats who had now appeared on all sides of the pier. There were at least three dozen of them and they looked to be carrying machine guns.

"And Avengers-"

Tony's attention snapped to the loudspeaker where a woman in a black suit had just arrived with a microphone. "Please don't attempt any heroics. I know you're all here, and I'd hate to have to gun down all these civilians because you did something stupid."

There were quiet cries of fear and anger from the crowd around them, but everyone cooperated as the thugs began to direct them all to stand in rows, lined up along the boardwalk. Steve gave Tony, Bruce and Thor a warning look not to try anything with so many civilians in danger.

"All I want is the Avengers. If everyone cooperates, the rest of you will go home safe."

Ducking his head, Steve waved the others away from himself. "Disperse. Some of you might pass as civilians."

Tony tried to wiggle his way forward in the crowd, but within seconds one of the armed thugs had recognized his face. He was roughly pulled towards the raised platform where the Woman in Black manned the loudspeaker.

"I found Stark!"

"Watch it," Tony grumbled. "It's my suit that's iron. Not me."

Another foot soldier stopped Thor from filing into the line with the civilians. He was easily the biggest man there, and his hair stood out as well. "Are you Thor?"

"I am," Thor said gravely. "But do not lay a hand on me. I will join my brothers-in-arms without protest."

The Woman in Black laughed as Thor marched up to stand beside Tony. The noise of the crowd was loud, but her voice carried easily over the speaker system. "I know you are here, Captain America, Black Widow, Mr Incredible Hulk and Agent Hawkeye. Do not think you can hide from me."

Although she did a good job of tucking her hair up under a quickly appropriated hat, Natasha stood out like a sore thumb when she was discovered to be the only stunningly gorgeous tourist with red hair. Unfortunately, Bruce had decided to stand beside her and was dragged to the front as well.

"Will you not give yourself up, Captain America? No matter. We will find you still."

They marched up and down the rows of terrified civilians, inspecting each individual. Some of the thugs in trenchcoats had photos of the Avengers with them. Steve's was an old promotional shot from WWII, with his features clearly visible, but the only shot they'd been able to find of Hawkeye was extremely long distance. You could tell he was blond, probably male, and had a penchant for black and purple. That was about it.

One of the thugs spotted Steve halfway down the line, and sauntered over, sneering. Steve met his eyes with a glare, his posture straight and unyielding.

"Are you going to make trouble?" the thug asked, gesturing with his machine gun, and then laughing when the people nearby flinched away.

"No," Steve answered. "Not yet."

He was bracketed closely on both sides, and pulled towards the front. Steve stumbled when a woman shrieked somewhere behind him, and his captors turned to look. There was a short scuffle, one row back, and then a young man was knocked out of line to the ground.

"What are you doing?" Steve's Trenchcoat called back to his cronies. "You're supposed to be looking for Agent Hawkeye. Forget the old lady."

Twisting in his captor's grip, Steve looked back to a cluster of the thugs surrounding a sobbing elderly woman and her defender sprawled on the rough boards of the pier before her. Two of the thugs parted momentarily, and Steve realised it was Clint on his hands and knees, spitting out blood. The archer sat back on his heels and glared up at the thugs. The skin around his left cheekbone was bright pink and his lip was split. Steve could do nothing but clench his fists in anger while they roughly grabbed the smaller man by his arm, and yanked him to his feet.

"Get back in line."

Clint stepped protectively in front of the elderly woman they'd been harassing earlier. The thug just sneered, placed one huge hand on the archer's chest and shoved. Probably hired especially with Thor and Captain America in mind, the Trenchcoats all towered over Clint to an almost comical extent. That didn't stop the rest of the Avengers from holding their breath and praying Clint wouldn't snap. Nobody held out much hope for the thugs if he lost his temper.

His jaw jutting out defiantly, Clint nevertheless let himself be pushed back in line, although he kept one shoulder angled in front of the woman beside him.

With a chuckle, his aggressor reached out and fisted his hand in Clint's hair. He tugged, dragging the shorter man's head back and up, so they were face to face, Clint straining to balance on his tip toes. "Careful, shrimp. You're not one of the heroes we're here for, and we already have plenty of hostages to choose from. Watch yourself. You are entirely disposable."

He gave a sharp yank, and then let go, moving on down the line. "Spread out and look for the last Avenger. You all have the photos. Get moving!

Up on the platform, Tony glanced over at Natasha who was now standing between him and Bruce. (Why were people always trying to jam themselves between him and Bruce? It's like they didn't want them to stand side by side or something.) Her face was a mask, but her eyes dared him to say anything.

Okay…

But really?

They didn't recognise him at all?

Clint was wheat-blond, wearing a purple t-shirt and black jeans, he'd just spontaneously stood up and defended a civilian from their evil machinations, and they didn't even _consider_ him a possibility as Hawkeye?

Steve joined the four others on the platform at the side of the pier, and watched as the trenchcoated thugs marched up and down the lines of the civilians, carefully inspecting each man they passed. Several times Steve had to elbow Tony to cut off his quiet snickering. Even the normally deadpanned Natasha looked a little bemused. Eventually, the thugs discovered a suitably muscled blond who hovered somewhere between Steve and Thor's height. He refused to admit he was 'Agent Hawkeye', but they weren't fooled.

The Woman in Black looked suitably pleased with herself as she strutted before the 'complete set' of Avengers. "Now I have a job for you, but first I'll introduce you to a little setup planned to keep you all in line."

She swept a hand towards the far end of the boardwalk. There wasn't anything particularly noteworthy to see, until Tony realised the giant shipping container that he'd assumed was for construction or storage of some kind, was being closely guarded by several of her henchman.

"I said I wouldn't hurt the civilians if you didn't cause trouble, and I haven't yet."

The goons pulled open the doors of the shipping container and started pushing the closest civilians inside.

"All these poor, innocent, bystanders are going to wait right here for us, completely unharmed while your team takes on a task for me. In the event that you follow my instructions to the letter, they will remain that way…"

Tony fidgeted awkwardly as they started moving Clint's row of people into the shipping container, but all the Avengers knew what the archer's standard orders were in a situation like this: protect the civilians. Clint would look after them. It was their job to deal with this nut job of a villain.

Didn't mean it was any easier to see their teammate shoved into the ominous shipping container, the bottom half of his face still stained with blood.

Woman in Black planted herself in front of the Avengers, hands fisted on her hips. "What you see behind me is a shipping container adapted to my own very special designs. It's essentially a giant oven. You are going to help me assassinate the Mayor of New York City, and if you don't, every single one of those people will be instantly incinerated."

* * *

The two giant doors slammed shut behind them and Clint turned to listen as the bolts drove into place. He wiped blood from his split lip on the shoulder of his t-shirt and sighed. They were locked in.

Light still trickled through the small holes that spattered the seams of the roof and walls to allow air flow, but it left the inside of the shipping container in a sort of twilight. They were packed pretty tightly, but not so much that everyone wouldn't have space to sit down if they wanted. If anyone started to panic, though, things were going to get uncomfortable pretty fast. Some of the last people to enter the shipping container had obviously heard the head villain's threats, because Clint could feel the fear rippling from one of the space to the other. The coils of tubing and wiring attached to the ceiling of the shipping container would have clued him in anyways, but Clint had heard the threats as well.

Even with his aids, his hearing wasn't great, especially in crowd situations, where there was just too much white noise to pick up on the important sounds. Thankfully, Tony seemed to have remotely synced his aids to the billionaire's cell phone (With one hand? In his pocket? Clint was actually a little impressed) and he was suddenly hearing all the dialogue the phone was picking up.

Captain America seemed to be attempting to negotiate their release, but in the meantime, it was clearly up to Clint to take care of the civilians.

And right now, they were clearly minutes away from panicking _en masse_.

Awesome. He hated public speaking.

Clint raised his hand and waved it around. "Hey guys! I know this is a stressful situation, but I need everyone to stay calm and not doing anything, like, stupid."

A man in a baseball cap beside him frowned. "And who are you?"

"Uh." Clint jumped up and caught ahold of a bar running along the ceiling of the shipping crate, and then used one of the giant bolts protruding from the wall to stand on. Now he was half-hanging off the ceiling, well above everyone else. "So… Hi, everyone. I'm Hawkeye. I think we can trust the rest of the Avengers to take care of the situation outside, and if you can help me by not freaking out, we'll all get out of this safely."

"You're Hawkeye?" someone else asked, slightly incredulously. "Really?"

Clint sighed. "Yes, really."

A kid standing by the door piped up. "You don't look like a superhero."

"That's because I'm not super. I'm just hero. A hero. Whatever."

Apparently he wasn't producing a very reassuring visual, because the voices began to pick up again, tinged with panic.

"Who's Hawkeye? I've never even heard of him!"

Someone near the back called out. "All you do is shoot things, right? If they set off the trigger, you're going to be incinerated along with us!"

"No one's going to be incinerated."

"You can't be sure!"

"Yes. I can. Because I'm going to make it impossible." He slipped through the mess of bodies till he was right up against the doors. The seams were too tight for him to get at either the hinges, or the bolt that kept the door barred shut. Feeling pair of eyes focussing on him with especially strong intent, Clint looked down to find a boy of about ten standing at his elbow.

"Yeah?"

"So how are you going to keep us from being fried?"

"I'm working on it. Give me a minute." The boy opened his mouth, another question obvious on his lips, so Clint cut him off. "So I'm Hawkeye. What's your name?"

"Samir. Hawkeye is a title, isn't it? That's not your name," the boy stated, with his brows pressed together seriously.

Great. There was a critic in every crowd

"No. I guess it's not. My name's Clint. Why don't we all introduce ourselves," he threw out absently, jumping up to look at the wiring on the ceiling a little closer.

Thankfully, a university student nearby picked up the thread of conversation, and introduced herself to Samir, Guy with Body Odour and the Mother with Small Child beside them. The wave of introductions spread out from there, having a slight calming effect as it moved. Everyone still kept an eye on Clint though, as he examined the composition of the heating coils and pulled out a few knives and his mini tool kit from random spots on his person.

He jumped up again to latch onto the metallic rods that ran the length of the shipping container. Hanging easily from one hand, he pried the cover off a small metallic box near the door.

"What's that?" the Mother with Small Child asked, when he dropped back to the floor.

"A wireless receiver for the remote that Woman in Black was waving around." Clint mumbled, unfolding his mini tool kit. "I'm going to hook up a loop to delay any incoming signals. It should give us some time while I dismantle the rest of this setup."

"How do you know all this?" Samir asked. "Tony Stark's supposed to be the smart one."

"Doesn't mean the rest of us have to be stupid," Clint pointed out. He picked up his Swiss Army knife and switched to the screwdriver head.

"What university did you go to?" asked the Girl in the Harvard Sweater.

"I didn't," Clint said, jamming the screwdriver between his teeth.

"What's your IQ?" Samir questioned, in a rather accusatory tone.

Clint swung himself back up to the ceiling and hooked both feet around the crossbar so he had his hands free. "I don't know," he mumbled around the screwdriver before taking it out of his mouth. "I'm not a genius, if that's what you're wondering. I didn't even finish high school."

"What grade _did_ you finish?"

"Uh. Grade Two?"

Mother with Small Child looked scandalized.

"-which is why," Clint started quickly, "you should stay in school, and don't…don't shoot things."

Samir frowned.

Satisfied that they weren't about to be surprise-incinerated, Clint set about quickly undoing the rest of the device on the ceiling. It wasn't exactly rocket science, and clearly no one had expected someone with a familiarity with explosives and evil-villains to have access to the system. For some reason, people always thought ceilings were a no-go zone.

"Alrighty," Clint let go with his hands and hung from his crossed legs, observing the inside of the shipping crate upside down. "That's all taken care of, folks. I give my personal Avengers guarantee that there will be no incineration taking place, of anybody here, at any point in the near future."

Everyone looked comforted, even if they were giving him weird stares at the same time.

"What about the rest of the bad-guys out there?" someone called from the back. "What if they come back and kill us all?"

"I'm pretty sure the rest of the Avengers have that under control, but if it would make you feel better, I could break us out?"

Everyone agreed they would feel much better.

So Clint borrowed (read: destroyed but guaranteed Tony Stark would replace) several pieces of cheap metallic jewelry, took a pipe from the ceiling and used basic chemistry and his Swiss Army knife to make a Thermite torch, otherwise known as the dangerous drug-dealing cousin of your common blow-torch, fueled by aluminum shavings and rusted iron.

Guy with Body Odour looked sort of nervous when Clint asked everyone to move back from the door, and directed four volunteers to hold up their leather jackets to protect everyone else from the sparks and residual heat.

"Relax. I learned this on MacGyver."

"Have you tried it before?"

Clint glanced over his shoulder. "A couple times. I've had to break out of some pretty weird places."

"What's MacGyver?" Samir asked.

Harvard Sweater ducked her head as Clint produced a heavy-duty cigarette lighter from his boot, and lit the makeshift wick for his torch. "He's a television character. A mega-hot action hero who fights crime with the power of Smarts and Science!"

Clint quirked an eyebrow, but had to agree, even with the mega-hot part. Any man who could pull off a mullet, pink long-johns and suspenders at the same time deserved an award, in his book.

"He has the sexiest hands of any fictional man alive." Harvard Sweater expanded, dreamily. "I could watch the MacGyver intro on repeat, all day long."

"Okay…"

Using the Thermite torch, Clint cut along the seam of the doorframe, separating the actual frame from the walls of the shipping container. He was pretty sure if he cut off the hinges the doors would just fall back inside the container and squash them. The torch burnt itself out before he detached the frame along the bottom, but with the weight of the door and frame together, he was pretty sure that wouldn't be a problem.

Dropping the smoking torch, Clint carefully peered through the space between the smoldering pieces of metal. Mjolnir whizzed by, taking out a trenchcoat not far away and he could hear Iron Man's repulsors firing nearby.

"Eh. Looks like they're pretty busy fighting out there." He drew back from the crack in the doorframe. "We should probably just sit tight and wait it out so nobody accidentally gets shot."

He could already feel the tension racketing up again, so Clint dropped to a seated position, patting the ground beside him. "Looks like we have some time to kill, so everyone might as well sit down and make themselves comfortable. Who wants to hear a story about the time Captain America tried to make pancakes, and set Tony Stark's kitchen on fire?"

"Me!" Harvard Sweater and Guy with Body Odour yelled in unison. Everyone hurried to sit down and listen attentively.

From there Clint segued to the time Tony Stark had created a sentient coffee maker that had withheld caffeine from Thor and nearly incited a death-match between Thor and the Hulk. Then a story of their epic battle against Narwhale-Men from Neptune.

Unfortunately, story time with Hawkeye went so well they didn't even notice when Captain America frantically broke the lock on the shipping container's door and tried to open it.

The whole doorframe tipped outwards and fell on him.

He was sort of - a little bit - flattened, but bounced back enough to grit his teeth and accept everyone's thanks at his attempted, if unnecessary, rescue. The thugs outside had been defeated, but at the very last minute the Woman in Black had managed to hit the remote incinerator button, and Captain America had rushed to save them from immanent death.

He needn't have bothered.

And if this batch of innocent bystanders went home with a different favourite superhero than they'd started the day with, well, they weren't unkind enough to tell Captain America.

* * *

 _P.S. If you don't believe me, regarding MacGyver's ability to pull of a mullet, pink long-john's and suspenders, you need to watch 'Faith, Hope & Charity'. Like, you really, _really _need to watch him._


	4. 4: The Mad Scientist Incident

_Sorry this is so late. I always finish my stories. Sometimes it just takes a ridiculously long time._

* * *

 **4: The Mad Scientist Incident**

To say Clint was feeling humiliated would be an understatement. First of all, the mercenaries had obviously been targeting Thor, repeatedly attempting to subdue and drag him away from the battle. The idea of kidnapping Thor was just ludicrous, and yet Clint had allowed himself to get caught up in defending his teammate and was quickly snatched up as an easier victim. Now he was drugged up to the gills, leaving him just aware enough to hear the melodramatic kidnapper's plan, and unable to do anything other than blink in response.

The evil super-villain of the day seemed to consider himself a scientist of sorts. He had outfitted the requisite subterranean concrete lab with an examination table, electronic equipment, and a suspicious lack of any science and medical tools that didn't facilitate slicing and dicing. Scalpels, yes. Petri dishes, no. Unfortunately, when Clint tried to comment on the matter, all he managed to do was accidentally bite his own tongue.

Lab Assistant Smyth (He was actually wearing a name tag, of all things), who had been carrying Clint around like a floppy ragdoll, had the nerve to drape the archer over one arm while he readied the examination table. Even if the lab assistant was stupidly strong, he could have at least pretended Clint's dead weight was a strain to carry. Despite his strength, he didn't make any attempt to set down the archer gently. When he hit the tabletop Clint's skull actually bounced with the impact.

It hurt.

"So you're sure these straps will work even with his super-powers?"

A cold hand wrapped around Clint's bicep and his arm was dragged out to lie parallel to his side. His arm felt heavy and disconnected from his body. In fact, his whole body felt disconnected and slow. Nothing moved under his command.

It was entirely unfair that he still felt pain.

Another voice answered from somewhere behind his head. "I told you I designed this examination table to hold Thor. I think it can take Hawkguy. Besides, I'm pretty sure his only super-power is flying or something."

Clint groaned internally. This did not bode well. He couldn't lift his head to see the rest of the room, or make any plans of escape. He couldn't really do anything except stare at the low cement ceiling crossed with pipes and dripping grates.

He had no doubts that Tony would eventually find a way to track him here, and Natasha would tear the world apart before she left her partner an unwilling captive, but Clint wasn't feeling particularly enthusiastic about lying here, waiting for them.

"All right, get his armour out of the way, and shut up. I'm broadcasting now."

There was a buzzing noise, and the equipment down beyond Clint's feet began to whir to life. The Mad Scientist walked past him. "Greetings, citizens of the world! You may be asking yourselves – who is this? And while you do not recognise my face yet, I promise you it will become one familiar and dear to your hearts. I am **Doctor Chemicalia** , and I interrupt your humdrum lives to bring you the truth! Today I bring you freedom from lies! I come to lead you out of the darkness of ignorance and into the light!"

Clint rolled his eyes as the crazed scientist's voice rose in pitch.

"Too long have we been controlled by the constrains of unjust law and totalitarian government. There's a conspiracy afoot!" he shrieked passionately. "A conspiracy against- is this thing recording? It is working, right?"

Assistant Smyth looked up from where he was fiddling with Clint's shooting vest. He was having an awful time trying to figure out how to unzip, unstrap and unbuckle the archer from his suit.

Served him right, oversized lunk.

"See the little red light, boss? That means it's recording."

"I know it's recording!" Doctor Chemicalia snapped. "I want to know if it's running."

"Streaming."

"IS IT WORKING?"

"Yes, boss."

"Good." He turned back to his equipment, and Clint shivered as he was finally stripped of his shooting vest. Smyth tugged off his boots and socks, but thankfully left him his pants as he moved on to securing the archer to the table.

 _Cough, cough._ "Ahem. It is time for us to strip away the façade that keeps us locked in fear! To escape from the lawman's pet guard dogs. It is time to reveal that there is nothing special about the Avengers, these so called 'World's Mightiest Heroes'! They pretend to have powers beyond those of mortal man, but in reality, they are as frail and mortal as the lowest bug! They are not gods: only human!"

Only human?

 _Only_ human?

Clint was quite proud of being _only_ human.

"Watch me strip away these layers of flesh to reveal the same weak innards. Watch this 'Avenger' scream when I pull his puny heart from his chest and stop it with a single thrust of my scalpel!"

And there it was. The point of the whole long-winded speech.

Awesome.

Just Awesome. Dissected on live television. Exactly how he'd always wanted to go.

Tony would probably be able to get the footage off the air before it got too gory. But right now Clint couldn't even talk and employ his finely honed stalling techniques. How many pieces would the Avengers find when they showed up?

Doctor Chemicalia had moved on to maniacal cackling, giving them a brief pause from his horrendous speechwriting. Clint took a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly. He could move his face a bit now, although he could tell there wasn't enough muscle control back yet for talking.

Smyth tightened the straps around Clint's wrists and moved down to his ankles where Clint couldn't see.

"Uh… Boss?"

"What?"

"We have a bit of a problem."

The mad scientist let out a frustrated snort. "Just a minute. We'll be streaming live again as soon as I deal with this." He smacked his hand on the pause button, but when Clint rolled his head to the side (Yeah, movement!) he was able to catch a glimpse of the video monitor. The red record light was still blinking.

"What exactly is the problem?"

Smyth tapped a hand against Clint's wrists. "He doesn't fit."

"What do you mean he doesn't… oh." When the archer was lying far enough up the table for his wrists to be properly locked in place, his feet came up short of the ankle straps. In fact, Clint could feel his bare toes just brushing the tops of the straps. There was no way they could secure his legs in place.

"Well, where do the wrist straps land if you secure his feet in place?"

Smyth obligingly released Clint's wrists and grabbed him by the hips, tugging him down the table four or five inches.

He strapped Clint's ankles in place and looked up the length of their intended victim. "Just below his elbow, boss. He'd still be able to move his arms quite a bit."

Doctor Chemicalia rubbed at his jaw. The archer had an intimidating amount of muscle on display for his relative size. He definitely wanted those arms secured. "Are you sure we got the dimensions of the table right?"

"Yes, boss. He's just not the right size."

Doctor Chemicalia cursed. "Fine. We must have rope around here somewhere. We'll tie his arms to his sides. Just make sure the rest of his upper body is locked down."

Nodding, Smyth reached for another strap. "Oh. This one's not going to work either."

His boss looked over. "Really!?"

A piece of leather fell across his face, and Clint blinked. The cuff that was supposed to encircle his throat now lay across the bridge of his nose, ending just at his eyebrows. Even if they found away to tighten it so he couldn't just shift his head and slip out, the cuff wasn't long enough to go around a grown man's head.

"If I pulled it really tight, it might stay," Smyth offered. "Or if I looped it down under his chin?"

"No. That won't work. He has to be able to scream, and the footage won't be half as effective if they can't see his face.

Sicko, Clint thought.

"Forget that one, then. If his head flails around it will be more dramatic. Just make sure his upper body can't move. Secure his chest before the drugs start wearing off."

Assistant Smyth obediently reached across Clint's bare chest, pulling at the strap that was supposed to tie him to the table at armpit level.

It flopped loosely across his throat. Clint rolled his head to the side and twisted, drawing his head out from under the strap.

"Hey! Stop that." Smyth admonished, pushing him back in place.

Clint repeated the motion, escaping his bonds again. "Ids nod goin' t'stay," he slurred.

"You're not supped to be able to move yet." The mad scientist said, baffled.

"'M spesh'l like that."

"Go get some rope!"

Smyth rushed out of the room. "Yes, boss."

He returned minutes later with a long coil of rope, which he wrapped around Clint's arms and stomach, and down under the table.

"And gag him."

"Nooo." Clint complained, "Then this'll jus' get boring."

Unsurprisingly, they didn't listen.

Satisfied, the doctor returned to his filming equipment and fiddled with it a bit, apparently not noticing that he'd left the equipment on this whole time. Clint didn't mind. More time for Tony to pick up on the signal and track him here.

Striding back to the table, the scientist picked up a surgical knife, and addressed the camera. "I will begin with a Y incision."

Clint grit his teeth as the doctor pressed the scalpel into his skin, and dragged it the length of his sternum. Hot blood welled up and puddled between his pectorals.

Never mind.

Forget waiting for Tony. He'd had enough of this stupid mad scientist.

The second the scalpel was off his skin, Clint twisted his head from under the strap again and pushed his shoulders up from the tabletop, thrashing violently.

Chemicalia jumped out of the way, his scalpel flying across the room.

"He's moving!" he shrieked.

Smyth pressed down on Clint's stomach with one hand and tried to secure him with the other. He grabbed for the thick strap that was meant to hold the archer's hips down, and pulled it into place. It covered half of his torso, instead.

"How is that supposed to help me?" Doctor Chemicalia yelled. "I can't cut him open with that in the way."

"But he's just going to keep wiggling. Boss."

Clearly not having expected this type of resistance, the wannabe-villain really wasn't handling it very well. He leaned over the table and slapped Clint hard across the face. "Stop it! You're not supposed to be this awake. We need more drugs. I'm going to give him more drugs."

His lab assistant looked worried. "More? We didn't measure for a human this size. That was already really close to an overdose before-"

The doctor cut him off, turning back to the table. "Did I ask you?"

"No, but-"

Clint had finally gotten enough dexterity back into his hands to slip one from the tangle of ropes around his middle. It was still secured to the table at his elbow, but he had just enough range of movement to snatch the edge of Doctor Chemicalia's lab coat. He gave it a sharp yank, which knocked the villain off balance and caused him to fall forward over the table. Clint grabbed him by the wrist and in the same moment lunged upwards to seize the mad scientist's glasses with his teeth. He turned his head to the side and snapped the glasses in half while twisting Chemicalia's arm up behind his body.

"Ahh!" The mad scientist screamed and dropped to the floor as soon as Clint let go.

That was one arm that wouldn't be hurting him again today.

"Boss! Are you okay?" Assistant Smyth questioned urgently.

Doctor Chemicalia stayed on the floor, snuffling loudly through a waterfall of tears. "He broke my arm! It's broken… I can't see anything. What happened to my glasses?"

"He broke those too, boss."

"Get me my backup pair and get me some morphine. It hurts!"

Smyth moved to oblige, and Clint immediately freed his second hand.

"Don't let go of him!" Chemicalia shouted, spotting the movement. "He'll escape! Just forget his ankles. I want his arms secure."

Smyth scurried to unstrap Clint's feet and lock his wrists down to the table. Clint managed to knee him in the nose once before the giant lab assistant tied up his ankles. Now his wrists were the only thing actually cuffed to the table. The rest of it was just rope.

Big mistake, badguys.

* * *

"Hawkeye! Ahh! Aaaeeeew, gross."

When Iron Man came bounding into the villain's lair thirteen minutes later, the rest of the Avengers following not far behind him in the quinjet, he found the archer still strapped to the table by his wrists, but now folded in half, his butt up in the air and his knees resting beside his shoulders as he tried to use his toes to retrieve the lock picks he always kept tucked behind his ear.

"Hey, Tony."

Clint dropped his legs back to the table. He now had the lock pick between his toes. Placing it on top of his other foot he kicked the tool up into the air. It landed in the palm of his right hand.

"Hey," Stark stuttered, looking around.

There was a giant of a man lying facedown on the floor and someone in a lab coat half buried in a sparking pile of electronics on the other side of the room. Loops of tangled rope scattered the floor.

"Are they dead?"

"Nah." Clint shook his hand free of the right cuff, and started unlocking his other wrist. "Just very uncomfortable."

Tony folded back his helmet and eyed the smears of blood on Clint's bare chest. "The video feed cut out a few minutes ago. We weren't sure if…"

Clint hopped down from the table, locking his knees so he wouldn't wobble. "I'm fine. I figured I'd given you enough time to follow the signal. Was I wrong?"

"No. No, of course not," the billionaire blustered. "I had your location right away, and I cut that awful monologuing off the air, so you don't have to worry about that."

Clint's keen eyes picked up traces of sweat on the other man's forehead, and it seemed pretty clear he'd been running his hands through his hair incessantly over the last hour or so. Tony also couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the blood. Clint decided to cut him some slack and didn't point it out.

The clatter of feet in the hallway was the only notice they got before a blur of black zipped into the room. Natasha stopped right in front of her partner, staring at him with hard eyes. Captain America rushed in a second later, skidding to a halt in the doorway. His gaze darted around the room, stopping twice to check on Clint before he turned to Tony. "Stop going offline, Tony! When I ask for an update on Hawkeye, I expect an update on Hawkeye! I don't want to find you've turned off your helmet mic again!"

"Give me a break," Tony whined. "I got distracted."

Natasha rolled her eyes, and ran the pad of her thumb down the centre of Clint's chest, gently skirting the long incision. He gave her a tiny twitch of a smile, and her shoulders relaxed.

"You're okay?" Steve asked. "Bruce is waiting for word in the quinjet."

Clint nodded. "I'm fine."

"Good." Steve blew out a deep breath and smiled. "Tony, I think you owe Clint an apology. He was right, you know. It is useful."

Brow clenched together, Tony followed their team leader's stare over Clint's shoulder to the empty surgical table, oversized cuffs and straps hanging loose. "What do you mean, it's useful -ohh."

Turning away, Tony scowled, "Maybe. Whatever. Sometimes."

Clint just smirked.


End file.
